


meteors of a troubled heaven

by artemine



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assassin Zevran Is Real And My Friend, Assassin/King, Assassination Plot(s), False Identity, King Alistair (Dragon Age), M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Strangers to Lovers, Trans Zevran Arainai, You guessed it - Freeform, Zevran Is Hired To Kill Alistair
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:21:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27443332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artemine/pseuds/artemine
Summary: Remember why you were hired, and why you’re here.Zevran's dagger felt cold against the skin of his thigh. He had put it there before coming to Alistair’s room, and despite it being something he’d done a hundred times before, it felt different. Perhaps his body, in the presence of the King, was just warmer than usual.A king, an assassin and a whole kingdom in balance. What will tip the scales — the weight of a crown or two heavy hearts?
Relationships: Alistair/Zevran Arainai
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [littlemachines](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemachines/gifts).



> is anyone in this tag alive? i sure hope so. 
> 
> here's a little assassin falls for his target and king falls for his assassin fic, we all love a little court drama. if bioware won't give me bi alistair then i will do it MYSELF!!
> 
> this prologue is set about 6 months after the story begins, so chapter one will take the timeline back to the start. hope you enjoy! and shoutout, as always and forever, to bird aka littlemachines on ao3. go check out their work!!

_Go on then, break his heart._

Loghain’s words swirled in Zevran’s brain still as he stood in front of Alistair’s door, unguarded like it always was. It made his job easier in a practical sense, but his job hadn’t been easy since he’d begun to really know Alistair. Not the bastard, not the orphan, not the Templar, not even the King. Just Alistair. His golden boy, who had a green thumb and a ravenous appetite, who could take even the best of knights in a fight but wouldn’t hurt a fly. Altogether one of the most exceptional people Zevran had ever had the pleasure to meet, another unique personality in the long list of unique personalities that he had met and then killed. People wrongfully believed it took being heartless and slightly misanthropic to be a good assassin, but Zevran had always scoffed at the accusations. It took a lot of heart to murder just anyone, and you had to love them well to kill them well. He didn’t think of himself as sentimental, but no target was uninteresting. No one could be boring _and_ have caused anyone to be mad enough they’d pay for their swift death. 

And yet. Alistair, knowing him, loving him in the clumsy way Zevran loved anyone, was different. It had tilted beyond his usual murder-related interest into territory unknowns and for the most part uncharted. Knowing Alistair felt peaceful, but Zevran knew that few people that ever met _him_ lived to tell the tale. Far from being uninteresting himself, he was and always had been an assassin, he repeated himself, as if to convince his conflicted brain. His targets being kind, pretty, interesting, full of surprises or holding their infuriatingly soft heart on their sleeve - or as it stood, all of the above - had never mattered facing the consistent sharpness of his blade. He had always been an assassin. Would he always be?

“Come in,” Alistair shouted before Zevran even knocked, and he allowed himself a smile. 

He took in a breath before opening the door, gathering his wits and pushing the lingering threat of the Court and Loghain at the back of his mind. He had always landed on his feet, and he had killed the person he loved once before. Alistair should not be that different, and should not prove any difficult. It was his own fault that he was in the situation again, and had he done his job before befriending his own target to that extent, he wouldn’t be in such a situation now. “My dear friend,” Zevran announced, swinging the door open. His cheery attitude, even to the now trained eye of Alistair, concealed all of the rare but tumultuous storm in his mind. It always did. “Expecting me, were you?” 

“I smelled your perfume in the hallway,” Alistair answered. 

“And you knew I was going to stop at your door?” Zevran asked cheekily, a slight grin on his face.

Alistair put down the little flower pot he was holding on the messy desk in front of him, dirt spilling all over royal business papers that should’ve mattered more to him at the moment, and tilted his head, chuckling. “I thought you might.” 

Zevran winked and Alistair shook his head, slightly shy still. After all they’d been through, from strangers to whatever they were now, something more and something less at once, Alistair was still easily flustered and taken aback by Zevran’s honest and relentless flirting. It didn’t matter what they shared, it didn’t matter if it was the first time they shook hands or the unexpected kiss good night the night before, Alistair was clumsy and humble facing such brash displays of interest. Zevran found it endearing. As if by reflex at the thought, his brain brought Loghain’s voice back at the front of his mind. _Remember why you were hired, and why you’re here._ His dagger felt cold against the skin of his thigh. He had put it there before coming to Alistair’s room, and despite it being something he’d done a hundred times before, it felt different. Perhaps his body, in the presence of the King, was just warmer than usual.

“I have to tell you something,” Alistair said, firmly and a bit louder than was necessary. 

Zevran raised an eyebrow. He’d been so lost in his own thoughts that he had missed the way Alistair stood, almost tiptoeing, slightly awkward. The sight would have been funny on any other summer evening, the thought of a man so big and tall made little by nerves the purest kind of comedy to Zevran. He himself was used to being the smaller man (physically and morally, but he _had_ used his height in the past to justify the latter), but he could never stand to make anything shrink him. Shame was foreign to him, and nerves expressed themselves in adrenaline. Fear was useless, and so he disregarded it. But if Alistair felt anything, he felt it fully, and tonight, it was stress Zevran couldn’t quite understand just yet. “Is anything wrong?” 

“No, no,” Alistair added quickly as Zevran’s surprise turned into a questioning look. “I thought we might need to… talk,” he ended lamely, looking at his feet. 

Zevran’s heartbeat picked up, his brain thinking fast about what warranted such anxiety. It wasn’t as easy to tell with Alistair, who seemed to show equal levels of worry about tense political negotiations with Orlais and picking which cheese he wanted with dinner. He did everything passionately, which most people wouldn’t know, seeing only his seemingly careless and laid back exterior. Zevran, however, wasn’t most people, and he could not at the moment tell if this would be about their relationship snowballing into a territory that would be a problem for a King whose Court hated him, or if it was something much more serious, such as the many knives Zevran currently had on his person that had his name all over them. Zevran decided to test the waters and satisfy his need to do something with his hands at the same time, and took a couple steps forward, crossing the distance between them. He raised his hand and brushed his thumb against Alistair’s cheek, more tenderly than he had wanted but as practical as he could make it for his own sake. “An eyelash has stolen my lips’ favorite spot,” Zevran said. Alistair rolled his eyes but didn’t pull back, and Zevran looked at him intently. “Talk, talk, talk. Must we? I am starving and thought we might just get something from the kitchens and have a quiet dinner. Maybe look at the stars. Or you look at the stars, and I’ll be looking at you.” 

Alistair smiled as he grabbed Zevran’s hand while it rested against his cheek. He held it in his palm, looking at him with furrowed brows, hesitant. He seemed lost in thoughts for a minute, and his smile eventually came back. “You have to be careful, Zevran.” 

Zevran clenched his jaws slightly. None of this conversation was going the way he wanted, which was rare enough to bother him, especially now. The thought of Alistair knowing they had spent months getting closer and closer and closer only for him to betray him at the last minute was unbearable, yet he wished to be the one to tell him. It would be especially unfair, he thought, if he didn’t get that opportunity. He had protected him from other assassins, the court, and Loghain himself enough times. He could hear his words to Loghain still resonating in his ears. _It would be a small mercy to tell him myself._ “Careful? For what?” Alistair didn’t answer, and Zevran pressed on. “I thought I had your protection by now, do I not? What can’t such a brave and strong monarch save me from?” 

“Bees?” Alistair asked. It made Zevran laugh, and he chuckled with him. “Your flirty teasing is getting sincere, Zevran,” he added after a pause, bringing his knuckles to his lips to deposit a tender kiss there. “Might get you in trouble.”

 _You don’t say,_ Zevran almost answered. “It was always sincere,” he said instead. Alistair opened his mouth to respond, his blush reddening, and Zevran didn’t let him. He wasn’t in the habit of letting his targets speak too much the night of their murder. Usually, it was due to the unfortunate fact there wasn’t anything they could say to make him change his mind, but tonight it was precisely because there was. Zevran raised himself up on his toes to brush their lips together. He smiled against Alistair when he felt his big hands wrap around his waist, deepening the kiss like he had before. It was delicious each time, something Zevran had been uncharacteristically forbearing about, each time he touched Alistair understanding better what people meant by patience rewarded. Zevran was not a patient man, but Alistair had made him wait. He had made him do many things, and Zevran felt a pinch to his heart thinking of what he made him do now. 

Their kiss intensified as Zevran slid his tongue in Alistair’s mouth, pushing it open. Alistair smiled against his lips, stubborn passion making up for clumsy inexperience, and he pushed Zevran’s body closer to him, raising him up slightly as he did. They had both, in their own ways, waited for this for quite some time now. Zevran had been clear about what he wanted, and would’ve liked to explain to Alistair just how special it was. He was in the habit of getting _personal_ with the people he was paid to kill, but this was different. He wanted this because Alistair was Alistair, not because he needed to kill him before the sun rose in the morning. He was overcome by the twists in his stomach letting him know that maybe he could tell him, maybe before it was over he could at least confess to that much. What would it cost, to tell the truth, if it was only followed by goodbye? He rarely got a chance to say that much.

Alistair tightened his grip on his hips and picked Zevran up just enough to allow him to sit on the desk, the angle much better for the two of them. Zevran had no qualms with being handled like this. There was a certain joy he found in people thinking of him as fragile and defenseless. He thrived best in the unfair fights that followed such silly assumptions, when little turned to nimble and defenseless to murderous faster than the people he shared a bed with could notice. It was a source of endless satisfaction to see his targets mock his cocky attitude they didn’t believe in to death. But again, at every turn, Alistair was unexpected, and when he touched him like that, it was with the care of someone that was careful about people’s every need, it was with the tenderness of a man who desired nothing but to be a good lover. Zevran’s body suddenly felt cold, and he chased Alistair’s lips as they pulled back. He tried to compose himself when Alistair took a step back, and put his palms flat on the desk next to his legs. “You lied before. There _is_ something wrong.” 

Alistair sighed. “How long have we known each other now?” 

Zevran looked at him pensively. “A few months.” 

“Right,” Alistair said. “Doesn’t it feel like it’s been a lot longer?” Zevran opened his mouth to answer but the words tumbled out of Alistair’s first. “I feel like I’ve known you my whole life.” 

“Ah,” Zevran answered, not entirely at a loss of words yet, he would need a lot more than that to lose the one thing he relied on, but this was still a king stuttering in front of him, a king he loved very very much, and the dagger carefully lodged in his belt was poking at his thigh as if to make a point. “I would’ve liked to have such memories of your youth. For all your tales of rolling around in mud in the town’s dirty back alleys, I have yet to see it with my own eyes. Of course picturing you covered in mud would have a different setting in my mind. Perhaps in one of those mud fights men have half naked. Would you be interested in-” 

“Zevran,” Alistair said, cutting him off. He knew that if he didn’t do it now, Zevran would go on forever and make him lose track of his fragile train of thought. “I fear like there’s been an… imbalance in this relationship, and I owe you honesty.” 

Zevran held his breath, nodding his head slightly at every word, his lies catching up with him with each passing day. He had outrun them long enough. _Honesty?_ He thought. “Imbalance?” He said.

“I want you, as you want me,” Alistair said, firmly, more to himself than to Zevran. “Like I didn’t think I knew how to want anyone or anything. I don’t know what will become of us, but before we make that decision, you need to know that I know.” 

“Oh? What is, pray tell, that you know?” Zevran asked, a smile on his lips still, but it was growing emptier by the second. If Loghain or anyone at the Court had told the King they wanted dead who he was before he could, he hoped that they knew Alistair wouldn’t be the only body servants would find in the morning. He would show no mercy to whoever had robbed him of this moment, of a chance at explaining, of a chance at a conversation with Alistair, of an opportunity to enjoy a last moment with the only man he’d ever cared enough to love. 

“I know who you are,” Alistair answered after a pause. 

Zevran looked at him, trying to find anything in the man’s eyes that would indicate it was a misunderstanding. Alistair’s stare was painfully serious, if a little guilty, and Zevran reached behind his back for the dagger he kept there. He grabbed the hilt but didn’t move. “You know?”

“I’ve known for some time.”

Zevran nodded, hardening his heart, ignoring it breaking. “Very well,” he said, and pulled the blade out from its sheath. 


	2. Chapter 2

**6 MONTHS PRIOR**

The room was ridiculously too big for the few belongings Zevran had with him. He imagined being an _ambassador_ in a royal castle had its perks, but he wouldn’t have known any of them. He traveled light, a habit from his youth, and even when he had had permanent housing in Antiva he hadn’t accumulated a lot of things. He thought it silly to collect objects or clothes or shoes or even weapons, and always favored being able to disappear with nothing but a simple satchel. He would argue that he was attached to his daggers but that was principally because they never left his body, concealed against his thighs, in his boots, behind his back, faithfully protecting him from harm and causing some at once. He wasn’t never going to unpack these anywhere. 

He looked around the bedroom he’d been offered, like he had looked many times since he had arrived. The same things stared back at him, a chimney he wasn’t entirely sure how to use, big, heavy glass windows that showed a courtyard and a forest stretching beyond what he could see, a little table with a pot of fresh water on it - someone changed it every day, he didn’t know who-, a love seat that he was excited to use in the future, a round door to a small bathroom, and the enormous bed he was sat on. He didn’t sleep comfortably on it, it was too soft and too empty for his liking. It was cold, too, but this was just Ferelden. Foreign, cold, and so far too luxurious for his comfort. Loghain had facilitated his arrival a week ago, and he still hadn’t been able to see the King longer than a couple minutes across a hallway. The man was always busy, always running around, a circle of characters spinning around him. They always had questions and requests and reports and reproaches and advice and he always had his head slightly down, eyes on his feet like he needed to look at them to make sure they wouldn’t trip while he was busy doing something else. Zevran had had time to observe his behavior, and despite the overwhelming amount of tasks and information he was dealing with, it was clear in his posture and the constant frown that looked out of place on his face that the King was doing his best to keep up. Zevran wondered just how many people wanted him dead as much as Loghain did, and if bombarding him with a constant flow of _things_ was one of the ways they hoped to do it. 

His thoughts on the handsome King he wished to kill the traditional Zevran way (by sleeping with him prior to the assassination) got interrupted by a slight knock on the door. He shook himself out of his trance and walked to the door, opening it wide. An elf stared back at him, already apologetic. He was pretty as he always was despite wearing hand-me-downs on his body and all the signs of someone who had spent too long working too hard for not enough on his face. Zevran sighed. He was the only familiar face in the castle, but it was unfortunate circumstances that brought him here every evening. “Again?” 

“Loghain asked again,” the servant said, biting his lip. 

“Are we going to do this every day?” Zevran asked. “If so, perhaps I should get some food ready for you so we can at least enjoy our time together before I inevitably force you to leave.” The servant didn’t answer, and Zevran had to contain his own disappointment. He felt for the elves in Ferelden, if only because he was one as well, but he could not wrap his mind around why they, by force or circumstances, accepted to live like this. He scoffed at the Dalish and their ways, and was a lot more sympathetic towards city elves, but would himself had never accepted a life of servitude and isolation. He imagined it wasn’t _that_ easy for any of them, but he himself had made hard choices before, choices that had made him murderous, that had broken his heart and changed his life and who he was for the worse. All to defend some sort of independence, an urge to always own himself. To be free to make his own choices, good or not. “What did he say this time?”

“That I should insist,” the elf said with a slight shrug. 

Zevran smiled. He was, at least, glad that the servant sent by Loghain to spy on him and make sure he was keeping his head down and his objective clear was getting more comfortable around him. Zevran had insisted that he didn’t have to be formal, since he wouldn’t serve him today or ever. “Do you know where he is right now?” 

“I do,” the elf answered, cocking his head slightly. There was a pause, and he sighed. “You’re going to make me bring you to him, aren’t you?” 

“Eh, I just want to make things clear between us,” Zevran said, and he closed the door behind him, grabbing the elf by the elbow, a happy smile on his face. “You are very charming, and under any other circumstances I would _love_ to have you in my room, but I would hate for you to have to come back every evening with the same attitude.” The elf avoided his gaze, smiling slightly, and Zevran pointed at a random direction. “If Loghain wants you to be here for me so much, why don’t you guide me to him?”

“I’ll do what you ask me to,” the elf said, moving forward. “That’s what I’m here for.” 

Zevran nodded and followed behind him, taking in the castle’s hallways as they walked in silence. The place was big, bigger than he thought it’d be. The Antivan Royal Palace looked nothing like it, and even if he hadn’t been there longer than a night (a fuck and a kill, his idea of a fun evening), he preferred it. It was prettier, warmer, filled with dark corners and sinuous hallways that anyone could hide in. It was more dramatic too, more colorful, and enough blood had been spilled in its many chambers that no one who lived there wrinkled their noses at a little assassination. Fereldans could say what they wanted about Antiva, at least they were honest about killing their kings. It came with the territory. Zevran had a feeling, from seeing the King of Ferelden, that the man had no idea what was going on in his own Court, in the head of his most trusted advisers. It could have been because the King of Ferelden generally looked like he had no idea what was going at all, in general, but Zevran intended to figure that out when he got a chance to meet him in person. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

Zevran turned his head to the elf that had come knocking every single night since he’d arrived, offering assistance like he needed anyone to help him bathe. “Anything for such pretty eyes,” Zevran said with a smile. The elf blushed, and Zevran’s smile grew. Maybe he _would_ call him to his room later. If he managed to convince him it wasn’t an order but an offer, maybe they could both have some fun. 

“Are you really Dalish?”

Zevran scoffed. He didn’t know what the people of the castle had been saying about the new Antivan ambassador and his ways, and he was surprised that this was the question. “Allegedly,” Zevran answered. “I am more Antivan than I am Dalish or even Elvish, but I imagine blood is blood regardless. Why do you ask, pray tell?” 

“Never met a Dalish before,” the elf answered with a shrug. 

“And you still haven’t, my friend,” Zevran said. “I am many things before I am Dalish.”

The elf chuckled at that, taking the bait graciously. “Oh? Like what?” 

“Handsome, for a start,” Zevran said, and the elf shook his head. Zevran noticed his smile, however, and felt a familiar warmth in his chest at the success of an easy flirt. He had missed talking to anyone for longer than a second, but the people that inhabited the castle treated him with either too much respect or none at all, and he desperately craved normal conversations, where he could play around with words and minds and make them bend around his desires and see what happened. The longest conversation he’d had daily was with Loghain, and there was nothing even remotely attractive about the old man. It made Zevran sad. Anyone that had the audacity to kill their King should _a minima_ be as attractive as them. Zevran hadn’t seen anyone even half as pretty as the current king, though, and imagined he wouldn’t. He looked at the elf next to him, focusing back on the matter at hand, and winked. “Next time you come to my room, you should do it because you want to. I’ll make sure it’s wine instead of water in that pot.”

“Well, I’m the one who makes sure the water’s fresh by changing it every morning,” the elf said, not quite looking at Zevran, glancing here and there like he wasn’t entirely allowed to but wanted to play the game.

“Perfect!” Zevran answered, clapping once, as if he had solved a very complex puzzle. “All the planets are aligning for a fun night in Denerim at long last.” He opened his mouth to say something else but the servant he’d been following stopped in front of a door, suddenly looking nervous. “Ah. Is the monster in there?”

The elf glanced at him, at the door, back at him, and back at the door. “Not just Loghain. I think the King’s in here with the Arl too.” 

“Wonderful,” Zevran said, and he opened the door without knocking, intent on making an entrance. Three heads turned to him with various degrees of surprise, and Zevran smiled at the group. He always liked an audience, and despite owing his current job and lifeline to Loghain, he intended on being his exact annoying self as much as he could before it got him in trouble. Loghain needed him too much, and as long as the ball was in his court, he would play with it. “Good evening,” Zevran announced, grabbing the wrist of the elf that had been “assigned” to him as he watched him try to leave out of the corner of his eyes. Zevran addressed the men in front of him, solemn and serious. “Respectable Monarch, Mister Arl.” He turned to Loghain. “Loghain,” he said. It made the King snort, and Zevran was surprised at the sound, but forced himself not to react. He was here for one thing only. “I hate to be pushy unless I’m in a bed and my needs are getting unfortunately overlooked, but I have _repeatedly_ made mention of the fact I do not need a dedicated servant. I would appreciate if you didn’t waste everyone’s time by sending him every day at the same hour to knock on my door.”

“What is this about?” Alistair asked, frowning at Loghain, looking at Zevran with curious eyes. 

Loghain crossed his arms on his chest. “It would be considered impolite not to offer the help of a servant to a distinguished guest,” he answered dryly. “It is just our customs.”

Zevran gave him a big, wide, open smile, full of teeth. He knew Loghain just wanted the elf there to make sure he could keep track of him. Neither of them trusted each other, despite both relying on the other for a very important service, but he wanted to make sure Loghain knew it would not be that easy. He was happy that the King was here. From what he’d heard of him, he doubted Loghain would win this fight. Zevran put on his most polite-upset voice, and pointed at the elf standing awkwardly next to him. He then pointed at himself, moving his finger between both their ears, as if his point was obvious. “Your customs are just that,” Zevran said. He did not feel kinship to elves, nor did he feel much kinship to people in general. He had always fared better as a sly opportunist, but this was one of the rare lines he would draw. He had never been served by an elf, or by anyone, and it would not start today, Ferelden rules be damned. “Yours.”

“And you are in our hom-” Loghain started. 

“Enough,” Alistair said, cutting him off as he stood up, looking embarrassed. “Ambassador Zevran, I apologize. This was misguided on Loghain’s part, and you are obviously free to refuse any and all help as you wish.” He looked at Loghain hardly, his eyes asking _what were you thinking_. He looked back at Zevran, holding his hands together, as if begging to be forgiven. “I meant to introduce myself in a better setting, and I’m sorry we’re properly meeting for the first time in such circumstances,” Alistair said, trying to gather all the royal speech he could muster. “I’ve been very busy, but I really appreciate your presence and that you’ve accepted your invitation, and-”

“Please, please, no need for such ceremony,” Zevran said over him, realizing he would have gone on forever and grown progressively more apologetic each second if he wasn’t stopped. He realized he was still holding the servant’s wrist in his hand and gave it a gentle stroke with his finger before letting go, shooing him away. The elf didn’t wait to be told twice and disappeared in the hallway. Zevran turned back to the King, taking the opportunity he’d been waiting for. “In fact, it is I who apologizes. I am sorry to bring this matter to you...” Zevran started, and trailed off. “Ah, speaking of customs, how should you be addressed? Your Highness? Your Royal Highness? Your Majesty, perhaps?” He made a mental note of Alistair shifting on his feet, uncomfortable at the list of titles. “Or perhaps something less formal, yes? Sir? King? Sir King?” 

Alistair laughed despite himself, shaking his head. “Alistair. Alistair is fine.” 

“Alistair,” Zevran repeated, the name rolling off his tongue, the _r_ slightly marked by his accent. He nodded, as if satisfied by the choice. “I quite like it.” 

“What do they call Kings in Antiva?” Alistair asked. 

Zevran’s mouth turned into an upside down frown, as if embarrassed by the one answer to that question. “Nothing you deserve to be called, at least as far as I’m concerned.” His tone was jovial still, and he took a good look at the impressive strawberry blonde man sitting in front of him. He was strong and tall, but there was nothing imposing about him, nothing quite royal about the way he stood or talked. He caught people’s eyes wherever he went, but Zevran doubted it was for any reason other than the fact he was undeniably good looking. 

Alistair nodded like he understood, and tapped his index finger on the wooden table in front of him, a nervous tick he couldn’t quite hide. “I am sorry to insist, but I do really want to apologize about the… incident, with the servant. You’re here because I want to guarantee this Kingdom is going in a good direction, and has good relationships with its neighbors. It starts in here,” he said, glancing at Loghain, who looked upset at being publicly reprimanded. “Allow me to give us a chance to start on the right foot,” he added, walking around his desk to get closer to Zevran. He extended a hand to him, who grabbed it and deposited a kiss on his knuckles. It made Alistair blink, and his hand hung there between them. He looked at it like it was about to transform, and it took Loghain’s cough to make him regain his composure. He cleared his throat. “I’m quite busy tonight, but let’s have dinner together tomorrow, so I can make this right by you. We need to get to know each other in better circumstances.” 

“A first name basis _and_ a dinner date?” Zevran asked, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “My, my, I really _am_ the luckiest elf in this castle.” Loghain rolled his eyes and Zevran smiled at him.

“Is that all?” 

Zevran turned at the last man in the room, who hadn’t said a word since he’d gotten here but had looked at him suspiciously. Like he was a hired assassin or something. Zevran knew what he looked like from the outside, how he spoke and how he teased, and it wasn’t the first time someone looked at him with such clear distrust on their face. Yet he couldn’t quite tell what the Arl was thinking, or rather which part of him was making him frown like he’d tasted something bitter when it should’ve been sweet. “That would be it, yes,” Zevran said slowly. He didn’t want to overstay his welcome just yet. The way Alistair was apologetic and open to discussion, Zevran knew he would have ample time alone to make himself a trusted companion to Ferelden’s King. “I won’t be bothering you any longer, my liege,” Zevran said, bowing slightly.

“Please,” Alistair said, looking pained. “Alistair is just fine. I don’t need any other title.” 

“What about pet names, though?” Zevran offered. The Arl started moving forward, his hand on the door, the message clear. Zevran raised his hands in a gesture of peace and turned on his heels, not waiting for Alistair to acknowledge his joke. The door started to close behind him until Alistair spoke again. 

“Ambassador?” Alistair asked. 

Zevran turned around at the last minute, almost missing the fact _he_ was Ambassador, and poked his head through the door. “Please, if I can’t call you something royal and pretty, you can’t call me Ambassador either.”

“Zevran,” Alistair said, and it sounded pretty and soft in his mouth. What didn’t, between such lips? “Can I send someone to get you tomorrow, so we can meet for dinner?” 

“I’ll be around,” Zevran answered with a grin. “Come get me yourself,” he said, and the Arl closed the door on his face. 

Zevran stared at the wooden door for a minute. He needed to get close to Alistair if he wanted any chance of befriending him enough to comfortably assassinate him, and he had a feeling it would be _fun_ . Alistair sounded focused on his royal tasks and easily distracted at once. He was careful of every people’s needs, which was a terrible attribute for a king, and Zevran knew that the Court, his knights and perhaps even the Arl himself weren’t entirely convinced he was the right choice to lead the Kingdom. Zevran had heard of Alistair’s father’s sudden passing all the way in Antiva. It had sounded suspicious to the people who had reported the news, but most Antivans had shrugged at it. Kings rose to power and then they died. A comfortable routine in his hometown, and having to kill someone as important didn’t make him shudder or particularly scared him. The difference with Alistair was that Alistair was young and pretty, which _was_ rarer in Kings than Zevran would’ve liked. 

He knew that he had to focus on the mission at hand, but there was something exciting about doing his job far away from home, with the promise of freedom after it. Leaving the Crows behind had been a goal of his for some time now, but he was spectacularly bad at planning, always better improvising and relying on his quick tongue and faster feet. To have found somewhere he’d been promised safety and payment against a mere assassination felt promising. Almost too good to be true. He had time, though, to get to his target, and would enjoy this Ambassador status for as long as he could have it. He _almost_ felt bad for the real Antivan Ambassador that had never made it out of the Ferelden port (courtesy of his knives). It would take Antiva and the Crows who had organized the trip quite some time to realize Zevran was where he was, doing what he was, and even if he was consistently cold in here, he knew he would at least be safe in the castle. 

He set off in the direction he thought he had come from, hoping he’d find his room or anything else worth his time on the way. He was growing restless and bored stuck inside those big stone walls. Tomorrow’s promise of dinner with Alistair kept him in a good mood, though, and he was confident it would be the start of a better week. If he could make a friend out of the King and get some trust from the castle’s most important person, maybe his time around would be more pleasant. He didn’t know how an Ambassador was usually treated. Despite Alistair’s best effort to open Ferelden to its neighbors and try to draw up treaties and agreements that would cement the peace and bring a much needed improvement of political relations, Zevran could tell that a long history of war and/or prejudice between kingdoms and races had made the job of any representative tedious. He had come across another Ambassador on his way out as he arrived, and the Orlaisian woman had clearly been dissatisfied with what had come of her visit. It was naive of Alistair to think this would work, even if it was just a step forward other royals refused to take. Antiva didn’t work like that. Political alliances were formed in blood and rigged elections, chess moves and countermoves decided long before any monarch would take the throne. It was all just for show, which mirrored his present situation. Perhaps he was the best Ambassador Antiva could hope to have, after all. A cocky assassin doubled with a liar, trying his luck with a King. 

Zevran had been walking for some time now, wondering if he could make Alistair believe Antivan castles had maps and Ferelden needed to pick up on that habit. He had been peeking through unlocked doors here and there, finding few things of interest, and took a sharp turn at the end of a hallway. He opened a heavy door and found himself in an empty courtyard he didn’t recognize. He looked around, pausing to look at a garden that looked very well taken care of, vegetables growing in one big square and flowers in another. It seemed at first ordered and neatly planted, but upon closer inspection, Zevran noticed the chaotic way the seeds had been put into the ground. There were no real straight lines to them. He was nothing of an expert on gardening, but he didn’t think vegetables should’ve grown on top of one another like that. None of the vegetable gardens he’d seen before looked like that. They weren’t lacking room, but it was as if someone had carefully dug little holes for each individual seed and then thrown just about any of them in the air, vegetables growing where they had landed. In a way, the vegetables looked like they were having a little party of their own in the dirt, mingling. It made Zevran smile, and he realized it was the first thing he’d seen in the Castle that seemed to have heart, personality, something original and colorful. The corner of the garden that had flowers was a little more coherent, and Zevran couldn’t tell if it was the same person responsible for both. There wasn’t enough food _or_ flowers to really be of any use to the kitchens or anyone else, and this was clearly a personal project that someone around dedicated time and love to. 

“Are you lost?” 

Zevran jumped, almost embarrassed to have been surprised, fascinated by what he was looking at. He didn’t raise himself up from his crouched position, but smiled at Alistair. “Just visiting.” 

Alistair crouched next to him, looking thoughtfully at leaves Zevran couldn’t quite identify. He was better than the average person at knowing what plant was poisonous and what wasn’t, what to mix together to make a deadly cocktail and what would take years to kill you, but he couldn’t have differentiated the sprout of a leek from the leaves of a potato to save his life. As Alistair reached to look at another plant, holding it carefully and tenderly, frowning as he noticed the yellow and brown spots on it, a sure sign of disease, Zevran realized the garden was his. It made sense, all of a sudden, and he felt foolish for not having seen that immediately. He had a feeling its stubborn, chaotic growth in a deserted patch of green grass in the castle matched its King perfectly. 

Alistair chuckled at Zevran, shy at being looked at so openly. “Do you like my garden?”

Zevran leaned back to sit, looking at Alistair get up to go to a little chest nearby and pull out scissors. He watched him delicately cut some parts of the diseased plant, worried and careful. “I didn’t think you had the time to take care of a whole garden by yourself,” Zevran said, amused. He had no particular love for plants, but he didn’t want to insult Alistair. Flowers were little to him but glorified grass, and his hands knew best how to kill, so he’d never tried his luck keeping a plant alive.

“I have to make time,” Alistair said with a smile, sitting back next to Zevran, holding the scissors still. “I think it’s relaxing.” 

“Wouldn’t have taken you for a gardener,” Zevran said, glancing at the size of his biceps. It made him feel a type of way that they knew how to be gentle. “If I had known, I would have brought you some plants from Antiva,” he added.

Alistair looked excited at that, his smile growing bigger. “What kind of plants do you guys have there that we don’t?”

Zevran opened his mouth to say something, and realized he lacked the imagination to invent a flower or name a plant. He was more closely related to sewers than greenery, and would’ve liked for a singular flower to pop up in his brain. He came up short, and tried to remember the ones he’d seen in women’s bedrooms here and there. “The red ones.”

“Red ones?” 

Zevran nodded, gesturing clumsily to try and emulate the shape he was thinking of, extending his hands in the air. “They can be red or white. And they have a little yellow thing in the middle.” Alistair looked at his hands carefully, clearly thinking hard about it, trying to visualize what Zevran failed to describe. He didn’t say anything and Zevran dropped his hands back between his knees. “Ah, well, flowers are not my field of expertise. They smell good and strong, like these,” Zevran said, laughing, pointing at roses.

Alistair laughed as well and got up, landing Zevran a hand. He pulled him towards him and they were facing each other, the height difference obvious when they were so close. “I’ll do some research,” Alistair said. “Find those mysterious Antivan flowers you speak of.” 

Zevran waved them away, shaking his head. “I make for a poor Ambassador,” he said with a smile. “I will have to compensate in other areas,” he added with a wink. Alistair nodded at him, oblivious or indifferent to the implication, and Zevran turned to the door he’d just been through. “Anyway, I had no intention of disturbing the peace of your little plants,” Zevran said. “If you can point me in the direction of my living quarters, I’d be delighted. Otherwise I will simply wander around, perhaps until I see you again in the morning or until some kind soul lets me in their warm bed for the night.” 

Alistair started walking to the door, inviting him to follow with a nod, looking all serious again. It seemed a little forced on his face, like it required a lot of concentration and restraint. “Have you eaten?” Zevran shook his head no, and Alistair looked at the hallway in front of them, frowning slightly. “I can’t offer a full dinner like I promised you’d have tomorrow, but I have a minute and was heading to the kitchen to grab a bite before I go back to work. I can take you there first, if you wish.”

“A wonderful idea,” Zevran said, following Alistair down staircases he hadn’t even noticed. He would’ve made a poor spy, and was happy his career choice had stopped at assassin. He couldn’t really remember the way he’d come before. Part of it was because anything that didn’t catch his interest was promptly forgotten by his easily distracted brain, part of it was because he was a little overwhelmed by how foreign everything felt. He had never really left Antiva, and while always ready for an adventure, he hadn’t been properly ready for how much he had been relying on a city he knew by heart and could navigate with his eyes closed and a bag over his head (which he had done a couple times). They walked past two knights who paused to greet their King and give a curious glance at Zevran, who just blew them a kiss as they moved forward. They accelerated as he did and he contained a laugh, following Alistair closely. The man was silent and focused on the road, and Zevran imagined it had to do with the dark circles under his eyes. He was strong but seemed to have accumulated an unreasonable amount of tiredness over the past few months. “Do you not have dedicated knights?” 

Alistair turned to Zevran, pulled out of his thoughts. “Uh?” 

“You don’t seem to have…” Zevran clicked his tongue, trying to think of the right wording. “Protection? A bodyguard? Trusted servants following your every move and guaranteeing your safety?” Zevran added, mimicking a sword fight. 

Alistair allowed himself a smile, opening doors to a kitchen. He didn’t stop to answer, going straight to a cellar, pulling out some cheese and bread and holding a bottle of wine under his arm. The cooks there didn’t seem surprised by the sight, and Zevran looked around, surprised but happy to see it. It looked like the King of Ferelden happily pillaging the cellar in the middle of the night was a common enough thing they were neither star struck nor annoyed. Alistair shook one of the cook’s hands, a routine greeting, and deposited his trophies in a table between them, gesturing at Zevran to help himself. He didn’t wait for his guest to do anything about it and opened the wine bottle with his teeth, spitting out the cork. Zevran twirled around to try and find some glasses, and gracefully accepted two from a nearby elf. Alistair bit into some bread and sighed, a smile on his face, as if he had been waiting all day for that moment. “I don’t know if we have a lot in common, but I understand your desire not to have a _servant_. I don’t care for a bodyguard either, or for much of anyone to help me out of my clothes.”

“No way! That is a shame,” Zevran said, shaking his head dramatically. “I am sure a lot of people would be delighted to help you do just that.” 

Alistair blushed crimson and brought his cup to his lips to distract himself. “I apologize for Loghain. He is not as excited as I am about making sure we are friendly to our neighbors. I just aim to solidify the peace between us, and I think once we know each other we can do nothing but love each other. You know?” 

Zevran let out a breathless laugh. He had heard stories and rumors of the new King of Ferelden being a naive fool, at least on Antivan standards, but it was something else to witness the hope and stubbornness in his face when he said such silly things. He couldn’t point out the irony of Alistair’s words to him, and wondered if there was love to be had in true and honest knowledge of the other. It was a rare and flimsy thing, both to know and to love, and Zevran had long given up on either of those. Anyone seeing him truthfully usually died in the process of doing so, and loving anyone had nearly killed _him_ at least twice. These were privileges of kings, a royal dream he would not bet on. Zevran was unsure what Alistair really wanted to hear, and so he defaulted to his usual playful tone. It had not failed him so far. “Perhaps. Let’s just say that if I need assistance taking off my clothes, the other person is usually naked as well,” Zevran said, bringing his cup to his lips, red wine staining them. 

Alistair blinked at him, his loaf of bread halted in the air halfway to his mouth. “Naked? Why would the help be naked?”

Zevran paused, a laugh starting in his chest and stopping before it came out of his mouth when he realized Alistair was seriously asking for clarification. He had met silly kings before, but none as oblivious to the one thing royals did too much of with anyone they could get their hands on. “Why, to show me how to remove the clothes, of course!” 

“But-” Alistair started, frowning slightly. “Never mind,” he mumbled, shoving the bread in his mouth. 

Zevran bit his lip to keep himself from laughing, wondering what kind of Ambassador he was to make the King of Ferelden think this was what Antivans servants spent their time doing. A good one, in his books. Whoever hoped a single wealthy noble doing damage control in a foreign kingdom would be enough to make two vastly different places understand each other could never hope to fix any political tension. Zevran didn’t fancy himself a politician, however, and he had a feeling Alistair knew this much and felt the same, if he didn’t know anything else (and it looked like he didn’t). 

“If you need any help around, I can be your guide,” Alistair said, changing the subject, cutting some cheese with his bare hands and shoving it in his mouth unceremoniously. “I intended to free up some time for you this week, but everyone always has something else for me to do.”

“That’s quite alright. How does one have fun in this castle?” Zevran asked, watching Alistair ferociously eat a piece of bread as if no one in this castle fed the King himself.

Alistair raised his head, talking with his mouth full. “Fun?” 

“Yes, fun.” It gave Alistair pause, and Zevran cocked his head. “What do you do for fun?” He wondered for an instant if he was speaking the right language, the way Alistair was looking at him. 

“People are having fun?” Alistair asked, his mouth slightly open.

Zevran picked a grape from the plate between them and laughed, a light, high pitched sound that resonated against the walls of the nearly deserted kitchen. “I would assume so, as in any castle. Seems like it’s unusual here, however, and if I see any, I'll report it right away, my King.”

“No, no,” Alistair said, blushing. He wiped his mouth with his arm and realized how Zevran looked at him. He cleared his throat and grabbed a napkin, unused still after all this time about royal manners. Or perhaps he didn't care. “Good for them if they do. I can hardly find the time.” 

Zevran put down the singular grape he was holding at that, taking a step back, frowning. “What do you mean by that?”

Alistair sighed. “I have so much to do, all the time, I never have any time for _fun_. I have my garden that calms me down, but I don’t… go out, if that’s what you mean. You look surprised. Are Antivans kings not that busy as well?” 

“Is any King?” Zevran looked at Alistair’s face thoughtfully, thinking of how sad and tired he looked. Maybe it wasn’t tiredness but stress that had him look so worn down, that had him slouch shoulders that should have otherwise stood high and proud, strong and ready for battle. He considered his opportunities, what Loghain wanted of him, and his own insatiable curiosity about the unexpected King that stood in front of him. No one, it seems, be it in the castle or in the neighboring kingdoms, believed in him enough to give him an honest chance. This at least was something he had in common with Antivan kings, their destiny traced before them by assassins and enemies no matter what they did. For the first time in his life, Zevran wanted to give someone a chance. There was something about Alistair, something childish and something strong, a combination of brute force and rare naivete that made Zevran amused and interested, and he wanted to be a part of it, even for just a little bit. “I’ll tell you what,” Zevran said, raising his glass between them. “I need to know how your kingdom works, and you need to know what I think about it. Let me follow you around tomorrow, and we can have proper dinner in the evening, yes?” 

“You want to follow me around?” Alistair said, perplexed but smiling slightly at the offer, like someone finally, at long last, truly desired his company. “It’s awfully boring. Nothing as fun as you talked about.” 

“We can have fun later,” Zevran answered, waving his concerns off. “My job is to make sure we get to know each other well. Perhaps I can be of use. I know a thing or two about castles and banquets and buffets and I may not be the one you should ask about flowers, but you will be _delighted_ to hear about my knowledge of cheeses. What do you think?” 

Alistair seemed to consider it, looking at Zevran with puzzled but happy eyes, a glimmer of hope in his irises as he realized he might have made a good choice for once. He might have picked an Ambassador that _finally_ wanted to work with him, wanted to make things better, wanted to improve relationships between proud kingdoms, was ready to take the step forward to work together. The clear hope in Alistair’s eyes felt like lightning striking Zevran down. “I’d love that,” Alistair said after a pause, and he scrambled to grab his glass, clinking it a little too hard against Zevran’s. It spilled both of their drinks on their hands, and Alistair looked around for a napkin. “Oh god. Sorry. I was just enthusiastic.” 

Zevran laughed and brought his hand to his mouth, sucking on the wine there, his eyes on Alistair. “I love enthusiasm,” Zevran said, declining the cloth Alistair clumsily handed him. “It is a quality most kings lack.” 

“I think I might lack the rest of the qualities kings usually have,” Alistair mumbled.

It was honest and foolish, and Zevran wondered if Alistair was always like this, volunteering information that set him up for trouble. He wanted to go and ask Loghain why they needed someone as skilled as him to kill to do the job. Alistair looked willing to open his door to anyone, his trust misplaced and too good to be true. There must have been something deadly hiding under all the gentle, and Zevran shivered at the thought of it. It was attractive and mysterious, two things Zevran valued above all else. “Do you know why people clink glasses like this, my King?” 

Alistair shook his head no, looking at the wine in his cup still moving slightly from how hard they’d _clinked_. “Alistair,” he answered.

“It’s a sign of trust,” Zevran said, mimicking the clicking once more. “You see, if you put poison in one glass, you wouldn’t risk mixing it up with your own, eh? A good, hard knocking of two cups mixing up beverages means mutual trust.” 

Alistair smiled. He raised his glass, waiting for Zevran to hit it with his again. When he did, he downed the rest of his wine. “To trust,” he said, slamming the cup down on the table. 

Zevran chuckled. He hesitated for an instant, but saw how eager Alistair was for Zevran to follow. What was a lie, after a lifetime of murder? Zevran took in a breath and drank the rest of his wine, putting his cup down gently. His voice echoed Alistair’s, enthusiasm mirrored for both of their sake. Alistair smiled. Zevran winked. If Zevran felt bad, he didn’t show it. “To trust!” 


End file.
